


To Sail the Stars

by rocknrollalien



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:46:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocknrollalien/pseuds/rocknrollalien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Enterprise picks up a party of delegates--researchers and diplomats--from planet Jix'an 6, a planet that has never seen stars. While transporting these interesting passengers to the nearest Starbase, pirates aboard a reconstructed Klingon vessel known as the Starship Tesla's Revenge raise hell.</p><p>If you're already imagining Chris Pine as Kirk and Zachary Quinto as Spock you may want to read another fic, I'm sorry. This is supposed to read more or less like an episode of the original series, though it may stretch a little longer than 50 minutes read time due to being forced into writing descriptions and thoughts rather than just showing you the characters and letting you guess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jix'an 6

**Captain’s Log**  
Stardate 3021.9  
The Enterprise is in orbit about Jix’an 6, and planet with a peculiar atmosphere and a yet more peculiar developmental stage. We are currently waiting for contact with a party of researchers and diplomats in order to beam them aboard the ship. Our mission is to transport these people to the nearest Starbase, in order to assist the Jix’anians in their outreach into the galaxy. 

“You’re telling me that they’re completely capable of flagging down Starfleet and requesting a vessel into this basically unexplored sector of the galaxy, yet they haven’t even got airplanes yet?” McCoy asked incredulously, squinting at the view screen dominated by the strange planet. It was impossible to see through the thick clouds covering every part of the planet, so from a direct visual it was difficult to tell that there was even a planet there.

“Nothing more complicated than a yacht,” confirmed the captain.

According to the transmission they’d received from Starfleet, the people of Jix’an had gone ahead and submitted applicable data on their planet, perhaps knowing that visual aid was no use, and knowledge on the entire sector was limited. According to their information, Jix’an 6 was a class “H” planet, with an almost entirely Nitrogen atmosphere and more fresh water than they knew what to do with; completely suitable for human life. There were more than 70 small, lush islands between the massive ice caps on either pole of the planet, all wholly desirable for shore leave if the Captain so wished. It’s people were highly advanced, and by all rights ought to have entered the galaxy almost a century earlier.

Due to Jix’an 6’s breathable but remarkably thick atmosphere, there were several abnormalities concerning the planet. First of all, there were nearly constant storms watering extremely fertile dirt. Secondly, the planet was a near constant 65 degrees Fahrenheit at the equator, though very cold at either pole, as sunlight had difficulty leaving and entering the atmosphere. Thirdly, there were no stars visible from the planet’s surface. The Jix’anians were therefore never a people who were fond of looking up. However, when humanoids are set on discovery and innovation-- however blocked by lack of motivation towards the stars—humanoids will get things done.

“What they lack in travel capabilities, they make up for in other areas, Captain.” Spock broke the silence that had spread across the bridge as the men and women aboard speculated on how different their lives might have been if they hadn’t grown up gazing at familiar constellations.

“What do you say, Spock?” Kirk responded, vaguely regretting having skimmed over the report the Jix’anians had prepared for Starfleet.

“They are remarkably advanced in terms of radio transmission and receiving, which is how they managed to contact Starfleet. Additionally, there is reported prowess in terms of agriculture and medical development. The ruling government is unique in—“ 

“I believe I get the point, Mr. Spock,” Kirk said, waving his hand dismissively. If he let his first officer continue, he’d relay the entire known history of Jix’anian politics and farming.

“Captain, the delegate party is trying to contact us,” Uhura spoke up, her finger hovering over the button she knew the captain would order her to press.

“Put it on audio.” She did so, and Kirk began projecting his voice, addressing the delegates. “This is Captain Jim Kirk, commander of the USS Enterprise.”

“Doctor Auberon Amurillian here, Captain. I speak with the voice of my people when I say that I am delighted to have you and your ship in our quadrant of space. We are ready to be beamed aboard your ship at these coordinates. I’m positive that we have much to speak of. Amurillian out, Captain.”

Kirk raised his eyebrows. “For a planet without spacecraft they seem to know what’s going on.” He pressed a button on his chair, opening a channel elsewhere on the ship. “Transporter room, we’ll be down in three minutes. You have the coordinates from Lieutenant Uhura, we’re expecting a party of five.”

Closing the channel, he turned to his doctor and his first officer, and beckoned them to follow him. “Prepared to meet people who spent their lives listening to the stars instead of seeing them?”


	2. Doctorate in a Hundred Uselessnesses

Five people beamed up at the appointed time—two women and three men. They were all humanoid bipeds, as expected, with dusky skin and bright eyes with thick, long hair. The women were dressed in long silver gowns, crisscrossing along their torso to leave the important parts covered and other parts showing in an appealing, symmetrical design. The men were each dressed differently—one in a tunic of similar fabric to the gowns and red high water pants and small black shoes, one in a dark blue double breasted suit with a light green sash, and the third in a serviceable but simple grey shirt emblazoned with a symbol that meant nothing to the crew of the Enterprise and black pants and boots.

The woman who could be presumed to be their leader stepped forward, extending a hand to greet the captain. Her eyes were a deep, understanding purple which might remind a more romantic person of the frightening depths of the ocean. Her hair was a startling shade of red, resembling blood more than fire, hanging in two braids over her shoulders, with yet more hanging loose down to her waist.

“Doctor Amurillian, I presume?” Kirk asked, a smile creeping onto his face as he surveyed the party.

“You presume correctly, Captain Kirk. I’ve heard much of your adventured across the galaxy, and those of your Commander Spock and Engineer Scott when they must take over the ship in your stead. This ship by itself is legendary. It is my personal honour to finally meet you, and your ship. It is a day I never dreamed would come,” she announced, her eyes wandering to each of the men in the room as she tried to put a name to each face she saw.

“The honour is mine and my crew’s, Miss Amurillian. I’m burning with curiosity as to how you know so much about me and mine,” Kirk replied, relinquishing her hand.

“We have been listening,” she explained with a smile. She gestured to her party. “These are the best and brightest of my people, and my friends. My fellow researchers, Asrielle Teslaron and Bajik Rondaullish. Of course, the best and only working diplomat in all of my world, Jokas Enapstill. And the obligatory security imposed upon us by my government and my family, my brother Rajik.”

The narrative must slow for a moment in order to give the reader an idea of how the men and women of Doctor Auberon Amurillian’s research and diplomacy party presented themselves.

Rajik Amurillian had hair the sane shade of brilliant red as his sister’s, but his eyes were a hard, pale, clear blue, and he stood over a good taller than the petite Doctor Amurillian at approximately 6 feet in height. His expression as stoic and conservative, but his eyes were lined with years of laughter. He wore the darkest clothing of the lot, choosing blacks and greys and the emblem of the police force of his nation.

The diplomat of the group, Jokas Enapstill, was a plump, short man with a large nose and a jolly face. His pale blue hair was kept in a single braid, hanging nearly to his knees, and his eyes sparkled green. He nodded eagerly as Doctor Amurillian called his name, grinning at Kirk as he toyed with his sash.

Azrielle Teslaron did not look like a woman suited to long hours of research in dusty computer banks. She had a paler expression than the rest, and visible dark freckles spattering her face and bare shoulders. Her large pink eyes were made larger by excitement and awe as she gazed around the transporter room. Her hair was loose, but for two miniscule braids for the purpose of holding back her mass of emerald coloured hair from her face. Sapphire highlights coursed through her hair, giving it a riverlike appearance. She looked almost starstruck by the presence of the Captain and his aides. She was stunningly beautiful, even compared to the typical beauties found on the ship.

The last assistant was Bajik Rondaullish. He was an older man, with the shortest hair of the lot, falling only slightly past his shoulders. The hair was shockingly white, looking as though it had just fallen from the sky in form of snow. He had a short beard, cropped in a close square around his mouth, and his golden eyes were reminiscent of the jungle snakes of Theta 12. He was proud in stance and posture, but shy otherwise, avoiding eye contact, instead preferring to study his functional black shoes. 

“And you, are Kirk,” spoke Amurillian, finishing her introductions and allowing the author to return to the conversation at hand. She grew more hesitant as her eyes skated across the other men behind the Captain. “And you must be…Spock?” she said questioningly, extending her hand to Doctor McCoy.

McCoy grumbled in response, “Well I won’t stand here and be insulted.” However, he smiled, and extended his hand in greeting.

Spock briefly stepped forward, deciding that it would be better to salvage the conversation rather than letting it meander at the pace of the pretty doctor’s confusion. He briefly grasped Amurillian’s hand and said, “I am Spock, Miss Amurillian.”

As he stepped back, he noted a pink flush in her face that had not been there previously. Embarrassment, he surmised as she sputtered out an apology, only to be cut off by the captain.

“Nonsense, I can hardly tell them apart myself,” he joked. “They ought to be grateful that you even care to learn their named. Now, if you don’t mind, the transporter room is a mite crowded. Shall we show you to your quarters, or would you prefer a tour of your very first space ship?”

“Oh I would so very much like to tour the ship!” Azrielle Teslaron exclaimed, clapping her hands together in delight.

Doctor Amurillian held a hand up, signaling her wish to speak again.

“My party will doubtlessly want to explore your Enterprise, and this of course I shall allow, but I would prefer to be shown to my quarters. We will be aboard your ship for some weeks, and I’d like to establish a sort of home base to return to should I be too alarmed by all the new experiences.”

“Fair enough. I’ll call you to the bridge in about an hour and we can discuss your plans,” conceded Captain Kirk. “Spock, I’m almost positive that taking pretty girls and diplomats on a tour of the ship isn’t to your taste, so you can have the honour of escorting the kind doctor to her quarters. I think the rest of us will be able to handle the Jix’anians’ curiosity.” He tilted his head at the green haired beauty with the suggestion of a wink.

Spock nodded, and the troupe all departed through the fairly narrow door of the transporter room without incident. Kirk and McCoy lead the delegates down the corridor, to show them the nearest attraction (that being the engine room, much to Scotty’s delight), while Spock showed the way to the elevator, and then onto the doctor’s quarters.

“Forgive my intrusiveness, doctor, but I am quite curious about you and your people. For example, what is your doctorate actually in? It seems strange that a medical or psychiatric doctor would be the leader of such an expedition,” Spock addressed her in the elevator.  
“Why, I’m a doctor in quite a few things. Psychology is one of my less practiced fields, but I am a doctor in literary analysis, education, archeology, political theory, history, and miscellaneous fields that are individual to my world and would be meaningless to you. If you’re asking me to perform surgery I must decline,” Auberon Amurillian responded with a small smile. “I was chosen to be the leader of our expedition, as you put it, because the whole journey was my idea.”

“I had assumed that the diplomat would be the chief of operations when reaching out into the galaxy, but apparently I am wrong,” Spock mused aloud. “Why does a psychologist, literary analyst, educator, archaeologist, political theorist, and historian lead her people into the federation?”

“Because I’m one of the few listeners that believed that the transmissions we received were factual, and not fiction. You can’t understand how difficult it is to imagine a world beyond yours, when there are not even stars to dream of. Your fields of astronomy and astrology are more alien to us than your pointed ears, Mr. Spock. Some thought of me as a religious fanatic, chasing delusions of god-like people with the ability to fly through the air. When Starfleet managed to reply to my world, they let me lead the party of delegates as a gesture of conciliatory respect,” she replied as they wound their way through the corridors.

“Fascinating,” Spock said softly, and unlocked the door to her quarters.

She stepped inside with a thankful nod, and the doors shut silently behind her. Spock decided to muse on what kind of government would afford a doctor in a thousand useless fields such an important voyage as an apology as he journeyed back to the bridge to assist in the preparation of the course to Starbase 29.


	3. Introduction to Stars and Negotiation

Time passed, and Spock found himself once again at the Jix’anian’s door. He buzzed to enter, and the door opened. Auberon Amurillian smiled up at him curiously, but he barely saw it. Being nearly a foot taller than the doctor, he found it easy to look over her head, and peek into the so called ‘homebase’ she had set up in forty five minutes she’d been in her quarters. She had a tool box perched on the small computer desk within view, in all of its multi-tiered splendour, revealing hypos filled with pale green fluid, rock samples, a full set of different coloured pens and pencils, a sheaf of blank papers, and many other things that he couldn’t identify in his brief glance.

“Have you come to escort me to the bridge, Mr Spock?” Amurillian asked, seeking to reclaim his attention from her box of assorted mysteries. “I had hoped for a yeoman or perhaps a security officer.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Such words could easily offend a human. You should be thankful that I made the decision to escort you myself, or you might have an emotional human pursuing the illogical path of revenge for such cruel words,” he said, and extended an arm, showing her a way down the hall. “As you expected, I am here to be your escort once more.”

“Mister Spock if I didn’t know what I know about you based on the communications I’ve eavesdropped upon I’d think that was a joke,” she said, making a valiant but ultimately doomed attempt to keep a straight face.

They arrived at the appointed time to meet with the Captain at the bridge, having traveled in relative silence beyond Amurillian asking for brief explanations of things she observed in the halls. Her entourage was already present, and clearly enjoying themselves. Jokas the diplomat and Azrielle the beauty were on either side of the Captain’s chair, giggling at his jokes, while Bajik was taking furious notes in a small notebook about the navigation systems, and Rajik was staring at the viewscreen, enraptured by the stars, hands behind his back and at attention.

Kirk looked over at his shoulder, and grinned wide at his best friend and passenger.

“Ah, Miss Amurillian, I see your found your way without incident!” he said, getting up from his chair to greet her.

“I’m afraid my navigational skills can’t be credited for my arrival. Your Mister Spock was there all the while, keeping me safe from brigands and getting lost in one fell swoop,” she replied placidly.

“I never before took him for a knight, but I suppose you learn something new every day.” Kirk smiled, and directed her attention to the stars on the viewscreen. “Since you and yours have shown me not just one but two beautiful things today, I believe it’s worth it to show you some odd billion beautiful things, don’t you?”

Amurillian hesitated for a moment, resisting looking at such precious things without any ceremony or appropriate prelude, but when her eyes finally settled on the beautiful lights, twinkling as the ship rushed past them, her breath caught in her throat and she realized that on doesn’t need an experience to precede a better one in order to improve upon it.

She drifted away from the captain of the enterprise, and gently coasted down the stairs in order to get closer to the screen. It was better than she’d ever imagined. To be fair, she’d never even heard the stars described to her, so it was very difficult for her to conjure such an image completely independently. Her mind boggled at the idea that each of those tiny lights was encircled by worlds like her own, worlds that could support life, and produce space ships and fly to other little lights and meet other space ships.

When she became aware of herself again, snapping out of her reverie, she found herself next to her brother. She glanced over, and surmised that she’d been making a similar expression so his slack jawed wonder. She began to blush, and wished she had the legendary Vulcan composure to keep her from eternally embarrassing herself in front of the first outworlders she had ever met.

“What do you think?” Kirk asked, leaning against the back of his chair and grinning.

“They’re beautiful,” she replied softly.

“You have a particular talent for understatement, Auberon,” Jokas said, laughing.

Before the conversation could die out and the captain could begin tending to his important duties to the Enterprise and her crew, Doctor Auberon Amurillian spoke up yet again.

“Captain, I have a request,” she stated, tearing her eyes off of the viewscreen to address him directly.

“Is that so, Miss Amurillian?” Kirk inquired, raising an eyebrow good naturedly.

“As a psychologist, and a pioneer on my world into space, I have many areas of research I can access aboard your ship, and I’d be much obliged if you were to assist me.” She distanced herself from her brother as she continued with her train of thought. “Aboard your ship are over 400 men and women who have spent years in space, with only the briefest of reprieves. Before I can entirely condone hurtling my world into the galaxy, I’d very much like to study the affects on interstellar travel on people of varying occupations.” In the span of less than 32 seconds, she had gone from dreamy star gazer to a woman who had earned her doctorate.

“I’m sure our chief surgeon McCoy can pull up a few tapes on the matter,” Kirk began to offer, evading what her evident demand actually addressed.

“I am also sure that he can provide that service for me. Unfortunately, only I am able to analyse the workings of human minds and compare them to the minds of those of my world. I require interviews. One person of every occupation aboard this ship, for an hour at a time, whenever they are unencumbered by their duties. I do not ask that they spurn their tasks and obligations in order to be psycho analysed by an alien shrink, I assure you.” Her purple eyes seemed to glow with intensity as she spoke, making Kirk vaguely uncomfortable.

He turned to his first mate and doctor, his most valuable advisors in all times in which he was made vaguely uncomfortable.

“What do you think Bones? Spock?” he murmured over his shoulder to them.

“I think she makes a good case, Jim,” McCoy replied, hands clasped behind his back.

“She is very logical in her approach, Captain,” Spock answered, in an identical pose.

“Your council has spoken, Captain Kirk,” Doctor Auberon Amurillian said, beginning to smile. “What do you say?”

“Alright, you can interrogate my crew if you must. I’ll have a yeoman make up a random list and we’ll send them to your quarters when they have recreation periods,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.

“I cannot wait to interview you, Captain,” she said, breaking into a full grin. “Now, who is going to give me a tour of this ship?”


	4. Interview with a Vulcan

Captain’s Log, Stardate 3023.4: The group from Jix’an 6 have proven themselves to be remarkably human in many respects. They are intelligent, careful, kind, and very respectful of authority—all except for their leader, Doctor Amurillian. She seems like a kind woman, but far too willing to question my orders or make requests that are too logical to refuse. If it were a man in her place, I would assume he was trying to undermine my authority as Captain of this ship and take over. Instead, I get glowing comments from my most trusted of crewmembers, and advice to head to her quarters for an interview because they are “quite relaxing.” She has scheduled to see myself and Spock today, and we will be the last that are formally scheduled.

“Do you trust her, Bones?” Kirk asked, having wandered all the way down to sickbay to ask the question.

“Well, I don’t see any reason not to,” McCoy shrugged, washing his hands.

“She’s so…clever, in finding ways to challenge my final say in things. She begins a request, and I immediately say no, but she keeps talking until there’s no option but to agree with her,” he groaned, sinking into McCoy’s chair.

“I believe that’s called the ability to get what you want through logical argument,” McCoy chuckled.

Kirk bent forward, his elbows on the desk and his hands wrapped around his head. “What if she takes over the ship? What if it’s some form of mind control that makes her every request seem sound and just? She’s an alien, Bones, not one of us!” 

McCoy huffed and puffed, leaning against the sink. “That’s positively old fashioned, Jim. Just think about this. Spock has no problem with her, and that’s the logical side completely covered. I’m Mister Gut-Feeling over here, and I still don’t have a problem with the doctor. When Spock and I agree, you’ve got to admit it’s a universal truth.”

“Spock hasn’t said there’s nothing wrong with her,” Jim grumbled, more to the desk than to his friend.

“He has his interview with her in a few minutes. If anything is off about her, he’ll spot it during their chat,” McCoy assured. “Damn that Vulcan, but he’s pretty sharp at this kind of thing.”

\--

Spock found himself outside the door to Doctor Amurillian’s quarters for the third time. With a thought to the schedule for the rest of their passage to Starbase 29, he surmised that this would most likely be the last time he stood at her door. He did not waste time trying to attatch ulterior meaning to the event, instead choosing to buzz the kind doctor, in order to be allowed admittance to her living space.

The door opened, and he found her sitting on a small couch, beckoning him to sit beside her. Fascinating, he thought, as he’d expected a far more formal environment. He sat, and noted the placement of the toolbox on a coffee table near their knees. It was the same toolbox as he’d noted several days earlier, atop her desk.

“I’m glad you found your way here, Mr. Spock,” she said mildly.

“That is interesting, because, if memory serves, you are the one who suffers from navigational inexperience in terms of this ship,” Spock replied.

She smiled, releasing a small laugh, as she snatched up a piece of paper and a pen. Spock raised an eyebrow at this; it seemed to him that a society advanced enough to hail an interstellar cab from the planet’s surface would have been able to come up with basic computers for recording data. He opened his mouth to ask her about it, and then shut it, unsure if by bringing up a device that had not been invented yet on her planet, he would be breaking the noninterference directive. Fortunately, Doctor Amurillian failed to notice his hesitation.

Paper in hand, she spoke: “I’ve been conducting these interviews, as you know, to get a fair idea of the effects of space travel on people in different walks of life,” she began coolly. He suspected she had begun every interview in such a way, and thus steeled himself for the barrage of questions. “But you pose a separate difficulty,” she continued.

He raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“I am a psychologist. That means I deal primarily with emotions. You are a Vulcan, and if I’m to believe your own broadcasts, and the testimonial of your shipmates and friends, you suffer from an acute case of emotional repression due to your upbringing. Which is completely fine! I don’t want to insult your society! I’m pointing out that this will make it incredibly hard to gauge your emotional response to space travel with such a barrier in place.” She was noting things on her paper in an alphabet he could not read as she spoke.

“Are you declining to interview me?” Spock asked as a matter of clarification. He appreciated her logical approach, and her failure to reprimand him for being unfeeling. It was remarkably professional of her, for someone in her particular occupation.

She looked up from her paper, and examined his face momentarily before answering. He had seen the look before; it was common in humans, especially women. She was trying to see if any minute emotions were going to flick across his face. Fortunately, that was not going to happen.

“I have an alternative, if you’re willing.” She paused again, making an attempt to gauge a reaction from his still features. “My brother is the highest officer in Ki’tarn—“

“Kee-tarn?” he interrupted.

“Yes, Ki’Tarn, that is my country. His duties frequently involve extracting the truth from miscreants. I am called in as often as I am available for administering a certain drug…” she trailed off, seeming uncertain on how to continue.

“You want to torture my emotions out of me?” Spock experienced a few moments of confusion. All previous data had supporting the notion of a woman who was education, intelligent, kindly, and physically nonconfrontational, yet her last series of statements had very clearly indicated a history in police brutality.

“No!” He analysed the brief expression on her face and categorized it as ‘Shock/Surprise.’ She shook her head, and held her hand up to still any protest he may have been preparing. “We are not barbarians. The drug causes no pain, and is merely what inaccurate politicians call a truth serum. It functions as an anti-suppressant, and it is not fail proof on criminals. It simply makes it more challenging to lie, because it removes the brain functions that allow you to keep certain things from others,” she explained.

“Truth is not an emotional process, Doctor Amurillian,” Spock stated.

“You can call me Auberon, for the sake of the experiment, Mister Spock,” she fired back with a tired smile. “Although it has never been tested on a Vulcan, we’ve found that emotionally repressed individuals found it much easier to lie to us, but much harder to conceal their emotions. They would sometimes confess their crimes because, for the first time in their life, they felt guilt. I’m not suggesting that you’re about to confess to a crime, but I believe that with the aid of this drug, I could successfully get a psychoanalytic bearing on your experiences on the Enterprise. I know from my Listening that Vulcans do indeed have emotions, and the chemicals in their brain respond to stimulus as much as a human, and it is merely the wall they erect to hold these reactions off that keep them from expression. This drug will cause you to feel nothing beyond what you would feel if you were human, and it only lasts an hour.” She paused, catching her breath after the long winded explanation.

“Fascinating,” he said in the interlude.

“Do you consent to having it used upon you? As I have said, there is no guarantee that it will work, or that it will not cause you pain. If you do not consent, we can have a normal, if frustrating, conversation for the next hour,” she finished. She leaned towards the toolbox, and extracted one of the hypos filled with pale green fluid.

He considered for a moment, and weighed possible outcomes. Emotions were something negative to him, based on the harsh reprimands his father had given him and the teasing of his classmates on his homeworld. However, logically speaking, her pursuit of knowledge was far more justified than his feeble attempt to preserve a societal standard. And, after all, it would last an hour at the outside. If he found the brief emotional period too unpleasant, he could simply choose to erase the memory with proper mental exercises.

“I consent,” he said.

She smiled in reply, and gently pressed the hypo to his arm. “It should start working in just a moment.”

Almost before she finished her statement, he became aware of the chemical reactions firing off in his brain. As he had learned in school, the reason Vulcans keep their shield up at all times is due to their emotions being far more volatile than that of other races. A thousand synapses rejoiced in his awareness of them, and he nearly shivered. There were feelings he hardly had names for shooting through his skull.

He looked up, to see Doctor Amurillian looking on curiously, and blood rushed to his face, beyond his control. He flushed green, and he was able to label this: Embarrassment. Then the fact that he was experiencing such a thing sparked another emotion: Shame. He wanted to hide his face, to keep it from the beautiful doctor’s scrutiny. What was that? Levels of testosterone declared themselves at home in his brain, and his body reacted. Affection? No, not quite, affection was what he felt for his captain, and his doctor. What he felt for the woman sitting next to him was something far less sophisticated. Ah, yes, it was lust. This idea conjured to mind the image of Doctor Amurillian’s assistant, a much younger, more beautiful girl. He covered his face with his hands, and felt how hot he was with shame.

“Mister Spock?” her voice filtered in through his hectic feelings. “Are you quite alright?”

“I am…adjusting,” he choked out.

He felt her warm hands brush against his, pulling them away from his face. Her expression was one of concern and understanding.

“I’ll have you focus on specific events, so you aren’t having to deal with every single thing you are currently feeling, does that sound fair?” she urged gently.

“Affirmative, Doctor,” he replied.

“Again, call me Auberon.” She was obviously making an attempt at being nonconfrontational as possible, in order to ease him into the feeling of…feelings. She had no idea of the inner turmoil that he was faced with. “Let’s start with something easy. How do you feel about your captain?” There was the slightest emphasis on the word ‘feel,’ which vaguely offended him.

“He is…he is my best friend,” he said, struggling. The fact that she would focus on the captain in such a way disconcerted him, but he was in such a state he could not quite pin it down. “I would die for him,” he continued, as he managed to focus his emotions towards the question at hand. “I…I suppose I love him, as a valued captain and a steadfast friend.”

“Mmhm,” she murmured, marking her paper in an alien alphabet. Her pen traveled across the sheet so furiously it was a marvel that the page did not rip under its pressure. Ah, the difficulties of primitive recording technology.

“Please do not record this,” he begged. “This is…shameful.”

She dropped her pen immediately. “Of course, I’m sorry.”

“Abandoning everything I have learned as a child, and being faced with many chemical reactions I truly was not prepared for…this is painful,” he managed, shaking. “I feel warmth towards people I believed I was neutral to, I feel hatred for those I believed I felt a mild dislike towards. I feel frustration, and rage, and pleasure, and everything except peace. I want to reject these emotions, claim that they are solely the effect of the drug, but I would rather not lie. This is for a scientific purpose, and my lie would benefit no one but the shambles of my self image.” Speaking about it helped him sort through his emotions. Relief was the feeling he labeled next. Pride at having spoken eloquently through confusion.

“Would you prefer I let you continue to figure yourself out, or begin questioning you?” she asked softly. 

He looked up, still grasping at his own green tinted face, and tried to put together a logical guess at what questions she’d ask about his time between solar systems. She’d want emotional responses. She’d want to know about the immense feelings of loneliness that accompanies leaving one’s homeworld for the embrace of the vacuum of space. She’d want to know about how it felt to be the only one of his kind out of a population of over 400 men and women. The answer to all of the questions he imagined she’d ask was the same: lonely. He felt lonely. Even with Jim, McCoy, Uhura, Scott…To them he was still a Vulcan, basically a high functioning computer. They had all revealed those feelings of incredulity at one time or another in a rage, or in despair.

“Do not—do not ask me questions about space travel, just yet,” he begged. He tried desperately to regain his composure, but the anti-suppressant was having its way with him. “Engage in small talk,” he suggested. “I may be able to handle my shameful emotions better with some small practice.”

“Can do,” she said, beginning to smile once again. “Welcome to how the rest of world feels, Mister Spock.”

He smiled, a little wryly, and said, “I believe the greater part of the galaxy suffers from this. I am suddenly filled with enormous respect for my forebears for choosing to be rid of it.” 

Her smile widened. “I must say, they’ve done a good job if this is how emotional you always are underneath that shield.”

He started to laugh, and then stopped, surprised. His own laughter had astonished him. Again, his cheeks filled with colour. If he continued this nearly constant state of embarrassment, he knew that the completion of the interview would be nearly impossible. He shook his head, took a deep breath, and dared continue the conversation.

“I would think that emotional outbursts would be common in your line of work, Doctor,” he said, and managed to maintain eye contact for the first time since he’d been dosed.

“If you continue to call me Doctor Amurillian instead of my given name I’ll give you a second shot and you’ll be crying about every puppy, kitten, and small child you couldn’t take home with you to love and to cherish for the rest of the evening,” she threatened idly. “For the third time, I’d prefer to be called Auberon.”

“My apologies, Miss Auberon,” he said.

“Now, I’m sorry but I have to ask, is your blood actually green? Is that normal?” Without warning, she leaned forward and touched his face as it burned with mortification.

Several chemical reactions fired off in his brain, nearly stunning him before he could reply. Her fingers were hot—hotter than a human’s hand—and levels of testosterone spiked in response to her simple touch. He remembered such uncomfortable feelings when the Nurse had attempted to dote upon him when it came time for him to return to his home and take a wife. He wanted to swat her hand away, and simultaneously he wanted to hold it more closely to him. This conflict was highly illogical, and he felt himself reacting with inner anger towards himself. All of this took place in mere seconds, before he answered her question.

“Vulcans bleed green,” he told her, his voice quaking. “Humans bleed red because of their iron based blood, but my blood is made of copper, instead.”

“Our blood contains trace amounts of iron, but very little. We bleed pink,” she remarked, fascinated.

“Fascinating,” he murmured. “I find you—your planet, that is—scientifically fascinating.” The remark was meant to be no more than casual conversation, and yet the slight misspeaking resulted in more internal humiliation than it was logically worth. He wondered if Amurillian—or, Auberon—was sympathetic to his shame, for her dusky cheeks were also tinted with pink following his statement.

“I suppose we do too,” she replied softly. “My study of my world’s archeology has resulted in some rather interesting discoveries that open far more debates and queries than they close. For example, processed metal dating from far before metallurgy had actually been invented.” If she were embarrassed, Spock mused, she hid it very well with her casual reports. Of course, she was not under the influence of a drug.

“I have been less interested in your history, I will admit. The reports your people sent concerning your atmosphere and environment were novel to me, and I had hoped I would be allowed to disembark in order to take my own readings,” he replied, feeling relieved at being able to get into a scientific discussion.

“What is so interesting about our atmosphere?” she asked. “Besides the fact that we cannot see stars, and apparently other worlds can.”

“It is so remarkably dense that it is surprising that it supports any organic life at all, much less to the point of supporting humanoids, no matter how anemic your blood. I was not given appropriate time to dispatch probes to get data on your planet, and the report was remiss on several matters I should like resolved.”

“Such as?” She picked up her pen again, and began making small marks, as if by writing in smaller handwriting she could avoid being noticed taking notes. He smiled; pleased at her committal to taking down everything she could learn about his inquisitive mind. Something in him made him want her to be interested in him. Pride, perhaps. Or lust. Or, even, seeds of affection and friendship.

“What are the temperatures like on Jix’an 6?” he asked eagerly. “An atmosphere like that ought to trap your sun’s rays and keep them there, pressure cooking the entire planet.”

“They are hot, Mister Spock,” she replied. “Much hotter than this ship. I’m actually quite cold,” she commented, shifting slightly with signs of irritation. “I cannot find a way to adjust the temperature in my quarters, and I failed to pack according to such chills.”

“I can assist you with that, Auberon.” There was a slight pause before he said her name, and he realized that he was vaguely uncomfortable addressing a woman in such a casual manner. It was not how he had been taught. “My quarters are also adjusted to higher temperatures, for Vulcan has a considerably thin atmosphere, and a closer proximity to its sun.”

She smiled, writing notes furiously, and Spock had the suspicion that she was blushing. Even with his new insight into the emotional spectrum, he could not fathom a reason for her blush. The scientist in him went to work, trying to analyse what she could possibly be reacting to. Embarrassment ought to be ruled out, he reasoned; she had made no social faux pas, and he had said nothing about her to make her feel shame. Physical exertion was improbable, as she was sitting quite still but for the movement of her pen. Arousal seemed unlikely, but he was inexperienced in the subject. Perhaps Jix’anians responded differently to different stimulus, and his conjecture was all for naught.

“I would like that,” she replied, after a silence that had stretched on long enough to result in the both of them feeling suitably awkward. “May I ask a few questions about you, out of curiosity?” she asked.

Unfortunately, Spock was still speculating on various stimuli to create interesting results in the lovely doctor and her even lovelier blue-haired companion. When he recognized that Auberon had asked him a question, and was awaiting a response of some kind, he began to seethe in discomfiture. This interview was going abominably.

“Mister Spock?”

“Yes, you may ask me questions. I would prefer if none went on the record,” he answered, gesturing at her notebook. Now, he felt guilt for delaying her scientific process, but his emotions were overpowering his logic centers, and he was struggling to even sit in the same room with this woman due to overpowering sensations of shame and desire.

A look of irritation passed across her face. “We only have so long to do this meeting, and your input is one that I’ve been looking forward to. If we keep stalling I’ll only get half of an interview,” she protested. At the look of pain and self-loathing on his face, she relented. “I’ll keep the rest of this meeting off the record, if I must, but only on the terms that you return for a second interview. And you must be under the influence of my drug again.”

“Agreed,” he said quickly. He almost immediately regretted it, for he had not put any thought into the possible repercussions of consenting to the drug’s influence again.

“Perfect,” she murmured. “Alright, Mister Spock, tell me: What’s your first name?”

A smile of relief somehow found its way onto his face. “You could not pronounce it,” he replied.

“And supposing I could? I think I’d like to hear the sound of it anyway,” she fired back, a smile growing on her face.

“S’chn,” he answered, his smile increasing in size.

“Suh-chin?” she attempted.

“No, S’chn,” came the correction.

“Sitch-ihn,” she tried again.

He started to laugh, and she laughed with him.

“I suppose I really can’t pronounce it. You do have a lovely smile, by the way. Shame you’re not allowed to show it except under extreme duress,” she said, once their laughter had died down.

“It takes many years to learn Vulcan High Speech,” he commented, feeling his face grow hot with the heat of her compliment.

“You have your own speech?” she marveled. “That must be the gibberish we’ve heard in some of the deep space channels! I assumed it was a transistor malfunction!” She went to grab for her pad of paper, his Spock reached out and touched her arm, stopping her.

“No record,” he reminded her, nervously. He cleared his throat, and continued on their conversation. “Yes, Vulcan has its own language. Most of the Galaxy speaks the common tongue, shared by Jix’an 6 and Earth, but many planets and cultures have their own languages. As a Vulcan, I am required to speak two. As the son of an Ambassador, I am required to speak quite a bit more than two. Does Jix’an 6 have only one tongue?”

“Languages,” she murmured, softly, as if trying the word out for the first time. “We can all understand each other, if that’s what you’re asking. Some of the smaller, agri-nations have strange speech habits and colloquilisations that make them difficult to comprehend, but we all use the same words.” She paused, her face alight with excitement. “Teach me,” she commanded eagerly.

He chuckled, amused by her enthusiasm. “You will only be aboard this vessel for a few weeks at maximum. Even an exceptionally bright student could not learn an entire language so quickly,” he explained. 

He was remarkably pleased at this conversation, and her thirst for knowledge fulfilled his hopeful expectations of her. He felt that he was growing to feel affection for her in a far shorter span of time than was typical for him. Supposedly, this was the affect of the drug, and he always felt affection in such a speedy manor, but was not made sufficiently aware of it until further in a friendship.

She groaned with impatience, and set about composing herself. “I’m sorry, but this is an entirely new topic. You just opened the door to some phenomenal ideas, and the Listeners are going to go into hysterics. They’ve been teaching that the Space Gods all speak with the same voice, but when they find out they don’t even all speak the same—what was it? Language?—they’ll have to reconsider their entire faith.” She finished her sentence with a small laugh.

“Your people believe us to be Space Gods?” Spock asked incredulously. 

“Oh, not the greater portion of us. Once we began receiving the transmissions, a religion cropped up nearly out of nowhere. When you don’t have a sky to look at, it is pretty incredible hearing voices coming from it,” she explained, undoing one of her blood red braids as she spoke. “And since they so fervently believed that these new Gods were come to prove that the old ones had never been as we think they are, there came a new group of cynics to oppose them. The cynics claimed that there were no transmissions from beyond our world, and that it was some farmer in an obscure agri-nation out to play a trick on the city people. The battling of these two groups served to stall any scientific analysis of the tapes for a good year,” she sighed, finishing her work on her hair. 

“Fascinating,” Spock replied, his eyes on her deft brown hands as she released her hair. There was no explanation offered as to why she had chosen just then to free her tresses from their confines, and he was too afraid of experiencing embarrassment to ask.

“Both groups took me as their unwilling spokesperson,” she continued. “The so-called Listeners awaited my public reports on anything significant I had heard and took them to be gospels, while the cynics used every other word I said and used it as proof that there were no stars at all. It made my work…challenging.”

His reply was almost automatic; “I can understand how that could be quite irritating to a human.”

“A human?” She lifted an eyebrow. “I’m afraid you misplace your understanding, Mister Unpronounceable First Name Spock. Also, I believe that you are under the influence of such human-like emotions that you could even empathise with my situation. Can you imagine, two different kinds of irritants restricting your from your work at all times, bickering with each other and with you, while all you want is to analyse some tapes?” Her gaze was steady, but her left eyelid drooped in a clear, nearly emotionless wink.

He could not help but smile at her dry statement.

“I believe I know the situation quite well,” Spock replied, still grinning. His smile seemed to automatically trigger a smile on Auberon’s face, which was a phenomenon he could attribute either to her psychiatric profession and trained bedside manner, or perhaps she somehow derived enjoyment from his smile.

“I’ve been talking about myself in excess. I am supposed to be interviewing you, aren’t I?” she asked, bordering on playful.

“What would you like to know?” he countered. As the conversation had veered away from emotional topics and onto science and culture and his friends, he had been lulled into a sense of security and control over his feelings.

“Perhaps I can get something useful out of this dud interview after all,” she mused, toying with her lower lip with her finger tips before going on, “Would you mind terribly if I asked some questions about Vulcan culture? It might be useful background for our official interview the next time we are both available.”

He hesitated initially. Bringing up his Vulcan heritage would logically bring their conversation into some shaky territory for his hectic emotional responses. However, he felt enough guilt for stalling her scientific purpose by postponing their conference.

“It is a sensible course of inquiry, Doctor,” he replied as stoically as he could manage.

“Auberon,” she corrected quickly.

“My mistake.”

“Mm, yes,” she murmured, and began ruffling through her notes. She pulled up a sheet full of scribbled notes, and glanced over them. “I did some preliminary research using your computer files,” she explained, “but I must admit I struggle with the technology. I learned that the planet Vulcan has only ever had one successful colony, although I’m not certain I understand the term ‘colony’ very well. I learned that Vulcanian education is supposed to be revered in the galaxy. I learned that despite being incredibly logical, Vulcan is steeped in deep traditions, not all of which are entirely sensible in my own opinion. I also know, based on the last few years of eavesdropping and about fifteen minutes of perusing personnel tapes, that you are only half a Vulcan.” She paused, and examined his face, taking in the vague expression of grief and foreboding. She strove on, despite this, “Would you say xenophobia is prevalent on Vulcan, based on personal experience?”

He took a deep breath, and thought about it for a moment, breathing out through his nose. “The Vulcanian distrust of outworlders has been documented for centuries,” he managed.

“Based on personal experience,” she urged.

Decades of being teased for not being one of them came to mind. Decades of being accused of being his mother’s son. Decades of being told that he did not belong in the galaxy for he was not human, and he was not Vulcan. Decades of being told that he shared the poorer qualities of both species, and had no place.

“I suppose my exclusion from many childhood group activities could be attributed to xenophobia,” he replied. “The history of Vulcan is a violent one, however, and it may have proven wise historically to keep to ourselves,” he continued, feeling he must defend his homeworld. “Before we were capable of controlling our emotions, we were as volatile and dangerous as Romulans. By withdrawing into our, as you say, insensible traditions, we prevented our culture from becoming deadly to the galaxy. Instead, we are now a leading race in the Federation Council, and a force of peace in the galaxy.”

Spock looked at Auberon, and was not able to read her expression. She was displaying so many emotions simultaneously that he could not separate and quantify each one. She was staring at him, her deep purple eyes wandering his face, her eyebrows drawn together, her head tilted towards her shoulder. As he continued to watch her, wary of a negative backlash to his defense of Vulcan, he realized that she looked like she might be about to cry. To this, he did not know how to react.

Before he felt he was forced to act in some way to break the motionless silence, Auberon moved to the complimentary brandy stores that were stocked in guests’ quarters by regulation. She took out two glasses, filled them half-way, and set them upon the table next to her notes and stores of anti-suppressants.

“You manage to create a logical answer to an emotionally provoking question, Mr. Spock,” she said softly, reaching towards the brandy as she sat upon the couch once more.

He noted that she was seated just slightly closer to him than she had been previously.

“Such is the way of a Vulcan,” he replied, and despite his best efforts, could not keep pride out of his voice.

“I suppose it is,” she returned softly, sipping the brandy and setting it back down after making a face of distaste. “Okay, next question, I suppose. What exactly is a colony?”

He breathed a sigh of relief. He could lecture on basic clarification questions until he was 200 years old. He leaned forward, and primed to launch into a long speech about the history of colonization in the galaxy. As he took a breath in preparation, Auberon leaned forward as well, with bright eyes, eager to learn.

They engaged in non-confrontational discussions of history, natural science, and archeology for some time, until Spock began to feel the drug fading from his system. As soon as he noticed it, he was arrested by feelings of relief and regret almost instantly. He was glad that he would soon be rid of the ridiculousness that went along with exposure to every single synapse in his brain, but he was filled with regret because he did rather enjoy the more pleasurable emotions. Affection, for example, was rather nice when felt in full force instead of felt diluted through a mental wall.

“When would you suggest we continue this interview?” he asked abruptly, disturbing a comfortable silence that had begun as Auberon had paused to write a few notes on how to fix the life support systems in her quarters. “Could you simply give me another dose of your drug right now?”

A smile broke across her face. “I am flattered by your enthusiasm, but I’ve arranged to sit through a medical examination by your good doctor,” she told him. “And I’m sure you’re dearly missed at your post. Before the affects completely wear off; I have one more question for you.”

“Go on.” He was filled with muted apprehension.

“What do you think of me?” She extended her arms to either side, as if she were showcasing herself. She was still smiling, but her eyes displayed elements of fear. Fear of what, Spock wondered. Fear of rejection, perhaps? Fear of a harsh verdict? Surely his file had included the fact that Vulcans are incapable of lying, and this is what she feared.

Impulsively, he reached out and touched her hand in a level of intimacy so far unprecedented between them. “I feel fond of you,” he answered. “I feel as though I can trust you.” This was not a lie, though perhaps it was an obstruction of the entire truth. He still felt the itch of lust towards her, and he still had the vague need to impress her as though he were an ape searching for a mate. The truth of his feelings disgusted him, and as the drug weakened in his system, he felt no necessity to convey them to her.

Despite the blandness of his praise, she blushed with pleasure. He had expected disappointment. Perhaps he would never understand the machinations in a woman’s mind.

“I believe I feel rather fondly towards you as well, Mister Spock,” she replied graciously, and turned to check the small electronic clock upon her desk. “But I do believe I have a doctor’s appointment I must keep. Tell your captain I look forward to our rendezvous.”

He released her hand, and his desire to continue holding onto her retreated beyond the impenetrable wall built by his culture to keep such things at bay. He still had dull pulsations of the stronger emotions running through his head, such as fear, hatred, loneliness, and love. He was not yet sure he wanted to foray into the bridge, knowing his difficulties in dealing with his own emotional bluntness.

As Auberon stepped through her quarters, braiding her hair briskly as she walked, he made the decision to stay in her room for a few more moments, waiting for the last dregs of the drug to leave him.

“You’re staying here?” she asked, raising an eyebrow as she noticed that he was making no moves to leave.

“For a few moments longer, it is a necessity,” he replied.

She smiled, and said, “Remind me if I ever want to keep you in my room for an extended period of time, I just need to make you feel some emotions,” over her shoulder as she left him.


End file.
